


Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing

by inexplicifics



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Consent, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24657805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Anon on the kinkmeme prompted, "In the woods, Lambert fucks a doppler who wears Eskel’s face. The real Eskel comes across them and that’s how he discovers that Lambert is attracted to him."Lambert thought he was going to have a quiet, guiltily pleasant afternoon fantasizing about sex with a man he's almost certainly never going to actually dare proposition. That goes a little sideways...in an unexpectedly good direction.
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher)/Doppler
Comments: 45
Kudos: 698
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing

“That’s it, good boy,” the rough voice croons in Lambert’s ear, and Lambert makes a low, deeply embarrassing sound and spreads his legs wider, digging his fingers into the ground and letting his head hang down until he can rest his forehead on the soft moss beneath him. The man behind him - broader in the shoulder than he is, sturdy as the mountains, fucking _enormous_ where he’s pressing his prick into Lambert’s well-oiled ass - strokes a hand down Lambert’s stomach soothingly. “Just like that. You can take it. I know you can.”

Lambert bites off a whine. “Just fucking _fuck_ me,” he snarls.

“At my own pace,” the man - Eskel, for now, or as much of Eskel as Lambert will ever get - says, maddeningly calm. Lambert snarls again, and Eskel leans down and bites, sharp and shocking, at the nape of Lambert’s neck. Lambert shudders and relaxes that last little bit, and Eskel’s prick sinks the final few inches into him. Lambert moans.

“Stuffed so full of me, aren’t you?” Eskel croons. “You like it, I can tell. I can _smell_ it. So eager for me.”

Lambert claws at the ground, trying to push back, to make Eskel fucking _move_ already, and Eskel chuckles darkly. “At my own pace,” he reminds Lambert, and wraps big callused hands around Lambert’s hips, and _slowly_ draws his prick out again, all the way to the tip. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and _slams_ back in.

Lambert snarls the filthiest curse he knows, and then Eskel does it _again_ , and again, and there are noises tearing themselves from Lambert’s throat that he didn’t know he could make, whimpers and moans and a high fucking _keen_ of helpless lust.

And then Eskel fucking _stops_ , gods fucking _damn him_ , and Lambert is about to start cursing him out _properly_ when Eskel - _actual_ Eskel, _real_ Eskel, oh _fuck_ this is bad - says from across the clearing, “Lambert. You do know that’s not me?”

“No, I’m such a fucking idiot I didn’t know a doppler when I saw it,” Lambert bites out, not daring to raise his head and _look_ at his fellow witcher. Eskel’s going to be so fucking disappointed in him. Any moment now he’s going to say something about how Lambert damn well _should_ have known because there’s no actual way in hell that Eskel would ever _want_ Lambert.

“Huh,” says Eskel. It doesn’t sound disappointed. Lambert isn’t sure _what_ that tone is, but it’s not disappointment, or disgust, or anger. And then Lambert can hear him moving closer, boots quiet against the moss but plenty audible to witcher ears. There’s the soft creak of leather as Eskel crouches down in front of him. “Lambert. Look at me, please.”

Lambert is a lot of things, but not a coward. He raises his head and glares at Eskel, who is looking back with an expression full of -

Not disappointment. Not disgust. Not horror.

_Lust_.

“Look at you, little wolf,” Eskel murmurs, and reaches out, very slowly, to card his fingers through Lambert’s short hair, brush the backs of them against Lambert’s stubbled cheek. “Aren’t you the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years.” He glances up briefly. “Doppler. Move. _Slowly_.”

Very slowly - warily, Lambert thinks - the doppler-Eskel begins to thrust again. Lambert’s jaw drops open, and he makes a tiny noise of confused lust.

“Hm,” Eskel says thoughtfully. “Don’t know when you got close enough to touch me, doppler, but it must’ve been years ago.” He locks eyes with Lambert again and grins, slow and wicked and _hungry_. “I’ve gotten a bit more practice since then.”

Lambert does _not_ squeak. “You sayin’ you could do it better?” he demands.

“Oh yes,” Eskel says. “If you wanted that. For all I know, you just like dopplers.”

Lambert growls. “Don’t fucking _tease_ , Eskel.”

All the humor leaves Eskel’s face. “Not teasing, little wolf. If you want _me_ instead of _that_ , all you’ve got to do is say so.”

Lambert licks his lips. The doppler is good, but - Eskel _wouldn’t_ tease, not about something like this. He wouldn’t lie. Lambert could have what he _really_ wants. Even if it’s just the once, wouldn’t that be worth it? Lambert could jerk off for _years_ on the memory of one fuck with the _real_ Eskel.

“Y-yeah,” he says, a little shakily. “I want you.”

Eskel nods and looks up at the doppler again. “Get the hell out of here,” he says, without any particular heat in it. “I ever smell you anywhere within a week’s travel of Kaer Morhen again, I’ll burn you to ash.”

The doppler eeps, high and thin, and pulls out of Lambert very carefully, and then scrambles away into the trees. Lambert shivers a little, feeling very open and somehow _vulnerable_ , naked on his hands and knees in front of Eskel, ass still dripping with oil. His usual instinct when he feels vulnerable is to lash out, but Eskel is looking down at him, eyes warm, smiling that wicked hungry smile.

“Look at you,” he murmurs again, and bends down to press his lips to Lambert’s.

Lambert didn’t let the doppler kiss him. That seemed like a bridge too far, somehow. So this is new and startling and _fucking_ good. Eskel tastes a little like goat cheese and honey, and a little like bitter ale, and under that just like _himself_ , like the concentrated essence of the smell Lambert tries so hard not to let anyone notice he spends every fucking winter chasing.

Lambert makes a little noise into Eskel’s mouth, and Eskel strokes his thumb over Lambert’s cheekbone gently. “Good,” he breathes against Lambert’s lips, and Lambert shivers. “Aren’t you good for me, little wolf.”

Lambert _whines_ , and he’d hate himself for it but Eskel kisses him hard and makes a pleased rumbling noise deep in his chest. “Yeah, you’re going to be so good for me,” Eskel says softly, and breaks the kiss to kneel up and start unlacing his trousers. Lambert licks his lips and watches avidly. He didn’t get a good look at the doppler’s version of Eskel’s prick; he’s seen it before, of course, in the hot springs and so on, but never like this, hard and dripping with arousal and _because of him_.

Eskel curls his hand around the back of Lambert’s head, huge and broad and gentle, the calluses catching slightly against Lambert’s hair. “Go on, little wolf, have a taste,” he croons, and Lambert lurches forward to lick sloppily at the pearly liquid beading at the tip. Fuck, Eskel’s big - big and broad everywhere, and proportionate here too, and fuck, this is _real_. This is happening.

_Fuck_.

Lambert opens his mouth as wide as it will go and does his fucking best to swallow Eskel down - doesn’t get more than halfway before Eskel tugs gently at his hair. “Eager little wolf,” Eskel murmurs, and pulls Lambert back - more a suggestion than a tug - and guides him forward again, steering him into a slow easy rhythm that makes Lambert feel like his veins have been filled with warm honey or sunshine, sweet and golden. Eskel croons praise, soft words without any bite to them at all, and his big hand is so fucking gentle on Lambert’s head, and Lambert closes his eyes and just sinks into it, lets himself have this - this fucking impossible glorious moment that is somehow real.

“Gonna come,” Eskel says quietly, and his grip loosens just a little like he’s going to let Lambert pull away. Lambert growls and pushes closer, and Eskel chuckles and lets him, speeds up the rhythm he’s been guiding Lambert into keeping, and makes this _noise_ , deep in the back of his throat, that Lambert could hear every day forever and still never get tired of hearing. Lambert braces himself a little better on his left hand - poor excuse for a witcher he’d been if he couldn’t hold himself up one-handed - and wraps his right hand around his own prick, moaning, and Eskel growls approvingly. “Oh, that’s pretty, little wolf. Don’t you come til I do.”

Oh _fuck_. Lambert whines around his mouthful and pulls out every trick he’s ever learned, tongue and teeth and suction - he doesn’t really _choose_ to moan like a whore, that just sort of happens - and Eskel mutters filthy, beautiful praise and thrusts deep into his throat and comes, bitter and salty and so _fucking_ good. Lambert peaks without realizing he’s about to, spilling over his own hand and the mossy ground with a sound that’s half a growl and half a moan.

Eskel pets his head gently as he pulls away. “Should’ve known you’d be good at that, as clever as your tongue always is,” he says, and bends and kisses Lambert again, deep and commanding. “Going to fuck you, little wolf.” There’s a hint of question in the words. Lambert nods.

“Fuck yes,” he rasps. Eskel smiles.

“Good,” he says, and stands, keeping one hand on Lambert’s shoulder, and moves slowly around until he’s behind Lambert, right where the doppler was. His hand trails gently down Lambert’s spine, a caress that makes Lambert shiver and arch his back for more. Eskel makes a thoughtful noise as he kneels down again, and then _both_ big hands are on Lambert’s back, stroking him like a cat, and Lambert can’t help the low pleading noise he makes, or the way his arms go weak and he ends up down on his face in the moss, ass in the air, whining as Eskel rubs every last bit of tension out of his shoulders. Eskel’s prick is like a bar of hot iron against his ass; the leather of Eskel’s pants is cool and slick against his thighs. _Fuck_ but it’s good.

“Who knew you could be so sweet, little wolf?” Eskel murmurs. Lambert would object to being called _sweet_ , but he’s busy moaning in astonished pleasure. Slowly, Eskel’s hands trail down Lambert’s back until they’re spread over his ass, thumbs just dipping down into the crease. Lambert whines a little.

“Ask for what you want,” Eskel coaxes, thumbs stroking just shy of where Lambert _wants_ them.

Lambert licks his lips and feels his hands curl into fists against the moss, and for the second time that day, rasps, “Just fucking _fuck_ me.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Eskel says, amused and _fond_ , and one big hand lets go of Lambert’s ass - Lambert refuses to admit he _whines_ at the loss - and then the tip of Eskel’s prick is pressing into him.

There’s still plenty of oil, and the doppler’s prick was exactly the same proportions, of course, but that was several minutes ago and Lambert has tightened up some since then. As Eskel sinks in, slow as dripping honey, Lambert moans aloud at the delicious burn of it.

“Oh, yes, that’s good, little wolf,” Eskel groans. “ _Fuck_ , that’s good.”

Lambert would like to know why hearing Eskel tell him he’s _good_ makes his whole fucking _brain_ light up with pleasure, while being called _little wolf_ makes him want to fucking _melt_ , but he has no idea who to ask about something like that. And at least Eskel is _doing_ it, without asking, without teasing, without making Lambert _beg_ for it, is just - just giving Lambert praise and endearments like it’s _simple_ , easy, natural. Like this is just - how he is when he fucks.

(Lambert is not going to even _think_ the words ‘makes love’. Catch him being _that_ stupid. No fucking way is this anything more than a fuck to Eskel. And of course it’s no more than a fuck to Lambert. Of course. Just a fuck. Just a really good fuck. That’s _all_.)

Eskel bottoms out with a quiet, fervent groan, and Lambert snarls a little at the burn, at the feeling of being so fucking _full, again_ , and this time it’s fucking _real_.

And then Eskel says, “Come here, little wolf, up on your knees for me,” and loops an arm around Lambert’s chest to draw him up so he’s kneeling, leaning back against Eskel - fuck, Eskel’s still wearing his _armor_ , still got his swords over his shoulder, it should not be as hot as it is to be naked in front of his fully-dressed fellow Wolf, being fucked like a fucking _whore_.

And then Eskel’s other hand comes up to rest against Lambert’s throat, no pressure to it, not a grip or a threat but a _claim_ , and Lambert makes a terrible desperate noise and almost comes on the spot. Eskel groans as Lambert inadvertently clenches down on his prick.

“Fuck yeah, that’s good, little wolf,” Eskel rumbles. “Hm. Put your arms up around my neck.” It’s an odd stretch, but Lambert manages it without too much trouble, his head lolling back on Eskel’s shoulder, left hand gripping his right hand’s wrist, _Eskel’s_ hand still a warm weight against his throat. “I’ve got you,” Eskel murmurs, right in Lambert’s fucking _ear_ , low and warm like a promise, and Lambert makes a really embarrassing noise and would probably try to pull away, to regain some tiny shreds of dignity, except that Eskel picks that moment to start to _move_.

He wasn’t lying. He _has_ gotten better since whenever that damned doppler managed to touch him and gain his form. Somehow he’s gotten the angle just absolutely perfect to hit _that_ spot, the one that makes Lambert see fucking _stars_ , with every slow, implacable thrust, and Lambert’s stretched out and helpless to do anything but _take_ it - well, unless he lets go of his own wrist, unless he pulls away, Eskel wouldn’t hold him if he pulled away, but the absolute last fucking thing Lambert wants to do right now is be _anywhere_ but right here, naked in the woods outside Kaer Morhen, getting fucked so fucking _good_ by the man he’s wanted for fucking godsdamned _decades_.

Not that he’s ever going to say that last bit aloud.

What he says instead is, “Fuck, _Eskel_ , yes.” Which is only slightly less mortifying.

“You like that, little wolf?” Eskel rumbles. “Good.” And then the arm around Lambert’s chest tightens, pinning him more securely to Eskel’s broad chest, and Eskel speeds up, angles his hips a little and somehow goes _deeper_ , and Lambert whines, high and shocked, and presses back as well as he can with his hands clasped behind Eskel’s neck and his torso pinned and Eskel’s hand so warm and perfect across his throat. He can’t move _much_ , but he tries. And Eskel makes a pleased noise, and presses his lips to the side of Lambert’s throat, a soft warm kiss that’s so gentle and careful Lambert almost wants to shove him away - it’s too much somehow, too kind, too _sweet_. Too much of something that he can’t quite bear to only have once, the way he’ll only ever have this one fuck, this one impossible moment. He makes a tiny desperate whining noise.

Eskel growls. “Gonna fill you up, little wolf,” he says, scarred lips rough against Lambert’s throat. “Will you come for me? Just like this?”

Lambert shudders. Just like this - yeah, he can come just like this, wrapped up in Eskel’s arms, _held_ and safe and with Eskel’s fucking gorgeous prick hammering that spot inside him with terrifying accuracy. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“Good,” Eskel says, and his pace picks up again, hard enough now that it rocks Lambert forward, or would, if he wasn’t pinned to Eskel’s chest. “Little wolf. Come for me,” he orders, deep and commanding, and sinks his teeth into Lambert’s shoulder, high up near the throat, where it’s tender and vulnerable. Lambert makes a noise - he has no idea what it is, only that it makes his throat ache as it emerges - and obeys, vision going white as he peaks. He can dimly feel Eskel thrusting deep one more time, prick pulsing as he comes.

There’s a long still moment, both of them breathing heavily, and then, carefully, Eskel kisses Lambert’s throat again and unwinds his arm from around Lambert’s chest, takes his hand away from Lambert’s throat, and coaxes Lambert’s arms down. He lowers them both to the moss, pulling out with a soft groan. Lambert doesn’t whimper. He _does_ roll over, warily, not quite sure what he’s going to see in Eskel’s face, and strangely relieved that all he can read in Eskel’s eyes is a sort of sated contentment.

Eskel stretches out beside him on the moss and runs a gentle hand down Lambert’s side, warm and soothing. “Hm,” he says. “That was lovely, little wolf. Next time, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to do it in a bed, though.”

Lambert’s mind goes utterly blank for a long moment. Next time? _Next time?_ He gets to have this _again?_ After a long, long moment he licks his lips and croaks out the only words he thinks he can find right now - maybe the only words left in his fucking useless brain at all: “Yes, please.”

Eskel’s hand rests huge and warm and gentle on the nape of Lambert’s neck, drawing him into a kiss. “Good little wolf,” he whispers against Lambert’s lips, and Lambert -

Lambert almost believes it.


End file.
